


Patience

by SenkoWakimarin



Category: Moon Knight (Comics), Punisher (Comics)
Genre: Established Relationship, Just a Couple of Assholes in Love, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-05
Updated: 2019-02-05
Packaged: 2019-10-22 21:02:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17670032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SenkoWakimarin/pseuds/SenkoWakimarin
Summary: Something about blood and silk.





	Patience

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kokopellifacetattoo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kokopellifacetattoo/gifts).



> This is for Juice. You're a good kid, and we all need more Moonisher.

There’s something about blood and silk, honestly. 

Maybe it’s just contrast. The way the red stands against the white. Dripping, soaking the fabric, ruining it as surely as those fists are ruining that bastard’s face. The gloves are impractical -- fuck, everything about Moon Knight is impractical, everything about  _ Marc Spector _ is impractical -- and they won’t last the night at the rate this is going, but they’re…  _ beautiful _ seems a poor word choice, but it’s not entirely inaccurate.

That’s Marc, though, isn’t it -- beautiful silk, soaked in blood. 

Frank snarls as he smashes the butt of his gun (empty, but like hell is he throwing  _ another _ pistol at an enemy; he’s not made of guns) across the face of the man who tries to rush him, and can only blame himself for the fact that he still manages to get cut pretty severely across his forearm. If he weren’t so busy staring at Marc he would have had that asshole down long before the knife was even in play.

Of course, but where else is he  _ supposed _ to look? There’s no one more dangerous in the room than Marc, and isn’t that where the eye must, in reasonable order, go? 

Marc is beautiful like this, in his element, putting his body through its paces as he takes out the last three men foolish enough to try rushing him. He’s fluid and powerful; watching him work is like being front row at some deadly combination of dance and brawl. And for all that Frank has eyes for no one else in the building, standing there trying to get his breath back and watching blood splatter up those impractical, ridiculous gloves; for all that Frank can’t take his eyes off Marc, Marc doesn’t even look at him until the last man falls.

And then, and Frank would never admit this, not to Marc, not to God, not to  _ anyone _ , but then, with no one left alive to distract him,  _ then _ Marc turns his attention to Frank, and for a fraction of a second, Frank knows fear the way a rabbit knows the fear of a owl's shadow sliding across the moon.

It’s only a moment, an instant, a bare handful of seconds in which his heart refuses to beat and his lungs won’t draw air, and then Marc steps neatly over a body and is closing the distance between them. 

Blood smears from glove to skin when Marc brings a hand to Frank’s jaw, pressing just slightly so he turns his newly blackened eye and bruised cheekbone toward the miserable fluorescent lighting they’ve been working in. 

Frank does not shiver when damp silk presses against the bruise, dragging at the flesh as Marc takes stock of the damage. He doesn’t shiver, but it’s a close thing, and when Marc tilts his head just so, attention moving from Frank’s face to the wound on his arm, and then to the bullets still lodged in the kevlar shielding his torso. Bloody fingers press over the spot where, were he not wearing the body armor, the round would have punctured a lung. 

“You need to be more careful, Punisher,” Marc says, eyes seemingly on Frank’s face again, hand still pressed to his chest. “Khonshu will not bring  _ you _ back.”

Sometimes Frank feels like a damn clicker-trained dog with Marc. He starts running his mouth and Frank’s composure is shot to hell. His hands latch onto Marc, one at his collar and one on the edge of that stupid fucking mask, dragging him closer, pulling it up, so he mutter against Marc’s insufferable smirk. 

“Don’t be a little shit about it,” Frank growls, and then Marc shoves up against him, pushing him bodily back, and  _ fuck _ , how does he forget every damn time how strong the bastard is? Frank’s not a small man, but Marc moves him around like he’s nothing, and that’s a problem, that’s a  _ real _ problem because it makes Frank feel something that’s not anger, not fear, not the kind of excitement that’s really proper for a work environment.

Not that Marc seems to give a good goddamn about maintaining a proper workplace relationship. Marc and boundaries seem to have a passing acquaintance, but when they’re alone anywhere, that seems permission enough for Marc to get like this. Handsy, possessive. He shoves Frank back, biting at Frank’s mouth with his mask bunched up over his nose, bloody hands hard on Frank’s shoulders. 

And the thing is, the  _ problem _ is, that Frank wouldn’t let anyone else touch him like this. In or out of a relationship, he wouldn’t tolerate being manhandled, backed into a wall,  _ owned _ . Maybe in private, but not like this, not out in the open, not in the middle of a fucking job.

He keeps his grip on the bunched up fabric of Marc’s suit, keeping him close even when his back hits the steel strut of one of the support beams. Pressed up against that, Marc finally kisses him proper, and it doesn’t escape Frank that he’s technically the one who started it, anymore than it escapes him that he’d probably go on his knees here and now for this man, anything for the feel of blood-soaked silk pressed against his face like this.

Marc’s fingers could dig into the bruises, could darken them, make them his instead of some dead strangers. Frank thinks about that a lot, about bruises, the ones he lets this man leave and the ones from strangers that camouflage the rest. How anyone looking at him can see a legacy of violence, but only he knows which marks mean what.

Frank loves competence, he’s pretty sure that’s the seed that sprouted into this mess of a relationship, having gotten a closer look than most at the absurdly effective whirlwind this man could be when it came to a fight. Marc could leave bruises and he’d do it with such finesse that Frank’s fairly certain he’d thank him for the privilege. 

But Marc only rests his fingers there, cool and wet with drying, sticky blood, soothing against the bruises, not adding to them. Mark kisses him like it means something, kisses him like this is the time and place for it, and maybe it does, maybe it is. Marc kisses him so thoroughly and so intently that Frank stops thinking about where they are and what they should be doing.

His hand slips from fisting the fabric of Marc’s suit to just resting there above his breastbone, open palmed and gentle. His free hand is twitching at his side, but before he can bring it to rest on Marc’s person, use it to hold him close, Marc is pulling away, hands off Frank, dragging his mask back in place and straightening his suit.

“Be patient,” he says, like he didn’t just pin Frank and stick his tongue down Frank’s throat. 

Okay, maybe Frank dragged him in first, but between the both of them, they know where the power lays in this relationship. Neither other them would expect Marc to do anything he doesn’t absolutely want. And Frank wouldn’t dream of stopping him once he started for something.

Still, Frank can’t help making an indignant noise, stepping away from that steel beam and shaking his head. Marc tilts his head, expression unreadable with the damn mask in the way, and then turns away, back to work. They have people to save, probably more people to kill. The nights tend to go that way, in waves.

Blood dries and bruises fade. Skin can be washed and sutured; silk ruthlessly cleaned back to pristine white or else discarded for a fresh pair. But there’s something, even now, even with some of the tension of the night bled out in a kiss, about the sight of those gloves; about white silk soaked in blood.


End file.
